The Cartographer
by S.L. Klassen
Summary: A Sherlockian reference librarian takes a tumble down the Rabbit Hole via elevator and naturally arrives promptly in Middle Earth. Being bereft of any other applicable skills, she puts her investigative powers to use as a member of the Fellowship. LegxOC
1. Chapter 1

**One**

Aida sat in the darkened, musty stacks, nose pressed into a large leather tome, as she was wont to do. It was evening—the most enchanting portion of the day, in her opinion. To her, evening seemed a time of endless possibilities; it felt transcendent, as if the gaps between worlds thinned and became permeable and she could float, unperturbed, in the in-between.

An orange light streamed lazily in through the third floor of the library's oval windows, accentuating the microscopic particles of dust that shimmered in and out of existence as they floated carelessly through the atmosphere. She sighed, broken from her reverie, and removed her tortoise shell glasses. She stood from the wooden flooring and respectfully reshelved _The Complete Sherlock Holmes_ by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. She had been perusing _The Sign of the Four_ for the fifth time that week.

It was hardly the sensational literature that circulated most often amongst the university's bumbling, giggling sorority girls, nor was it quite so serious as a Darwinian ode upon _The Origin of Species_ to which the Biology students seemed instinctively drawn—but the escapades of Holmes and Watson were a sort of home-away-from-home for her. She had loved them all through childhood and had taken to sharpening her own powers of observation, using a mental representation of Holmes as an amusing makeshift mentor and guide.

Aida privately thought she affected a Sherlockian-sort of appearance herself; she was exceedingly thin, giving her features a very pointed sort of edge. Her high cheekbones were complimented by a set of full lips, though her grey eyes were too close together and her nose was less than ideal, being sharp and distinctive itself. She had thick arches and a set of dark, curled eyelashes that quite offset her almost white-blonde hair, which she had cropped into a pixie cut for ease of style and convenience. This need for convenience extended to her wardrobe, and she had adopted a uniform of skinny jeans, tall riding boots, and cardigan sweaters.

Her admiration for Holmes affected much more than her appearance; her love for learning had drawn her to her occupation—librarian and perpetual student. At twenty-four years of age, she had assumed control of the university's academic library as head of the Reference Department—a difficult feat, to be sure, though she was quite proud of what she had accomplished in her comparatively short life. She viewed her occupation as a sort of perpetually unsolved mystery, constantly hunting down information, traversing the boundaries of time and space to retrieve facts and opinions and editorials and beautiful prose and poetry. It was a new hunt every day—one could never be sure what questions would be asked, and she was as bloodthirsty as the hound of the Baskervilles where finding answers was concerned.

She continued around the enormous circular room, straightening up books and clucking her tongue in disapproval when she discovered one misplaced or upside down. Aida did this waltz around the stacks seven times a week, every evening, and she rarely went home before the Sun had said its last farewells and had left the Moon in charge. After all, she lived alone, keeping company with only Willoughby the cat and a somewhat amusing collection of salt and peppershakers from every corner of the globe, which her great aunt had bequeathed to her upon her deathbed. Generally the only people she saw were her colleagues and the students and faculty of the university, and that was quite enough social interaction for her, thank you very much.

Taking one last glance around and feeling quite satisfied that the natural order of things had been restored, Aida hitched the rope across the entrance of the third floor stairwell and walked the short distance over to the library's elevator. She always took the elevator down in the evenings because she, being more inclined to bookishness than gracefulness, had the awful premonition that she would break her neck some night by taking a tumble down the dimly lit staircase.

The elevator gave a cheerful ding! as it arrived upon the third floor and Aida shuffled inside with her enormous handbag (she was wont to carry around loads of books) and the umbrella she had brought to work (the forecast had called for rain, and one would rather be safe than sorry), her mind fixated on what she should have for dinner and whether or not Willoughby had been wrecking havoc on the apartment while she had been away (he had the most annoying habit of unrolling rolls of toilet paper). She pressed the button for the first floor and began to bounce slightly on her toes, impatient to leave the cold lift and be on her way when suddenly, the overhead fluorescent lights began a peculiar flickering.

Aida's breath hitched in her throat as the lights gave a final flash, and with a sad-sounding buzz flickered out completely. Left in the darkness, Aida forced herself to exhale slowly and repeated a mantra of _Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic._ inside her head. She sat down her bag and umbrella and began to fumble for the emergency button. She contemplated yelling for help, but decided against it when she realized that the rest of the staff had gone home, as it was a Saturday night and nobody aside from herself worked such long hours.

She began to hear a metallic groaning in the darkness of the lift. It sounded as though metal were scraping metal and twisting in upon itself. It came on slowly, as if it were sneaking towards her in the gloom. Louder, louder, louder it became, until suddenly Aida felt the floor fall out from beneath her feet and she gave a high-pitched yelp of fright, her hands flying out from her sides in a desperate attempt to grab hold of something, anything, though her fingertips met only the cold steel walls of the lift.

The cable of the elevator had snapped and it was plummeting towards the lowest surface possible, down, down, down to the third floor of the Library basement. Aida fell quickly to her knees, trying hard to brace herself for the inevitable impact.

But it never came.

She estimated that the plummet had been enough to send her straight to the third floor basement, but she had the curious sensation that she was hovering, suspended somehow between the noise and violence. Slowly a dim and hazy light began to peek into the elevator; the doors were… opening.

No, the doors were not opening; they were being pried open by some terrible force. A high-pitched wheezing scream met her ears and her heart and her stomach switched locations. Aida became lightheaded and nervous and she groped anxiously for her umbrella, having the sudden idea to brandish it as a sort of makeshift spear.

Great, long, bony fingers had snaked their way between the solid steel doors and Aida fought between the urge to prepare herself for battle against some underwordly creature and to shut her eyes tight and try to enjoy her last moments locked in the safety of her own mind. The gears of the metal doors made a stressful grinding noise as they were pried further open, and she could smell her own fear and a stench that emanated from the foul dead hands as the doors gave up their struggle and opened. She heard another piercing scream. She felt her breath ripped from her lungs and an icy wind whip through her clothes; there came the sensation that her clothes were soaked through with water and had been for hours and hours.

Biting her lip hard, Aida forced herself to open her eyes. She let out a shaky breath and collapsed to her knees.

There was no creature.

But there was a distinct change of scenery; gone was the steel sanctuary of the elevator.

She stood, still feeling utterly bewildered, and further took in her surroundings. The pitch-blackness of the elevator had been replaced by the expansiveness of the night's sky and, rather than sturdy industrial flooring, her feet were planted on slick cobblestone. Curiously, her bag was still beside her. She picked it up and shouldered it, muttering a small "oof" underneath its weight. She turned her face upward, mouth agape with confusion, and felt the pitter-patter of rain against her pale skin.

"W-what… what is going on?" she stammered.

In front of her was a dark and expansive wood, complete with a quite capsizable-looking ferry. Aida's eyes wandered back and forth across the scene, drinking in what might otherwise be a rather picturesque backdrop if it were not for the relentless downpour of rain.

"Oi! Miss!"

Aida jumped straight out of her skin and whirled around, brandishing her umbrella, her eyes as wide as the moon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

Aida blinked and lowered her umbrella.

She had been expecting some relation of the bony-handed creature or another equally nefarious being to have startled her, but instead she simply saw a ruddy-faced elderly man peeking his head through an unlatched window in an otherwise solid wooden gate and fence combination.

His hair was beyond thinning, sticking about his face helter-skelter from the rain. His teeth were yellowed and few and his eyes clouded with age, but he looked an otherwise magnanimous creature... Not that a bear wouldn't look magnanimous compared to the creature who had just assaulted her elevator.

Aida walked closer to the window, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip. She had no earthly idea of her location, where the library had gone, or how she had wound up outside and unscathed from the fall of the elevator, but she did know that this old man could see her and that he appeared to be distinctly lacking in screeching bony-handed shadows.

When left with no other options, the good detective begins in the most obvious place: right in front of her nose. And this man was, most definitely, right in front of her nose. She strode purposefully forward, and noticing the uneasy stare he began to give her, mustered her most demure smile.

"What are ye doin' about in the darkness and rain, lass?" the man gruffly began, his eyes still searching over her personage, "an' lookin' so mightily strange as ye do?"

"Uhhh," Aida replied stupidly, looking down at her clothing.

She had on her usual jeans and tall riding boots and felt she was quite in keeping with normality. She was no fashionista, but she would hardly call herself a "strange" dresser. In fact, if roles and been reversed, she would've felt justified in posing the exact same question. The man wore a loose, rough looking homespun tunic and dirtied brown trousers. His shoes were old and split at the top and Aida would've sworn she'd spotted a bit of toe cleavage.

"What do you mean…?"

"Yer dressed like a lad and yer hair don't make it no easier to tell ye from one, neither!" he proclaimed, narrowing his eyes, "An' here I was, just lettin' in those young Hobbits, an' you sprung up out o' nowhere."

Aida pursed her lips. Though a fan of antiquated literature, she was less a fan of antiquated men who believed women ought to be swathed in miles of skirts with hair down to their feet. Furthermore, she had no earthly idea what a Hobbit was, but she simply had to get on with this man. He was her only lead.

"I'm afraid I must be lost," she replied, "I was just in the library and now I am…not. Can you tell me where I am?"

"Bree," he replied gruffly, "An' ye best come in out o' the wet, before yer dead _and_ strange."

The great gate doors gave a rumbling noise as they opened and Aida shuffled in hurriedly, lugging along her bag and umbrella. _Bree_… She had never heard of any sort of town by that name, though this settlement seemed more of a quaint medieval village than a 21st century town.

The cobblestone continued on throughout the village, snaking in between the rows of picturesque houses, some in disrepair, others looking almost freshly built, albeit using wood and stone rather than concrete.

Each house shared the same general guidelines of construction; wooden skeletons, quaint windows, thatched roofs, and solid oaken doors. Many had tall stone chimneys with smoke curling merrily out the top. Just looking at the scene made Aida feel colder and wetter.

"Well," began the gatekeeper, who was still eyeing her suspiciously, "ye ought to see abou' the Prancing Pony if ye got no where else to stay. I imagine ol' Barliman'll put ye up for the night. An ol' softie, he is…"

He began to close the solid gates again, and they shifted into place with a satisfying groan. Aida observed that he appeared curiously unaffected by the downpour, or perhaps he had grown so used to the elements that he was no longer bothered much by anything.

Aida assumed the latter, thanked the man again for his directions and his time, and began to make her way through the cobblestoned street. The soles of her boots made a splashing clackity-clack as she half-ran towards her destination, anxious to escape the rain.

The gatekeeper had informed her that she should continue down towards the first intersection of roads, make a right, and then make two lefts from there. Being rather astute with direction (as a librarian must naturally be to navigate the stacks), Aida soon found herself blinking up against the rain at a hand-carved sign bearing a rearing stallion, The Prancing Pony scrawling in letters below it.

"Well, here we are," she said to herself, feeling the need to muster up some courage. She felt it silly to be afraid to walk into a rustic inn, but she was still incredibly shaken up by the odd turn of events her Friday night had taken. She stared at the brass door handle to the inn for a moment, privately lost in her thoughts. She hadn't altogether given up the hypothesis that she was dreaming an incredibly vivid dream, somewhere back in the library asleep with Sherlock and Watson and drooling unceremoniously on herself.

Aida huffed and suddenly realized how incredibly wet, incredibly cold, and incredibly heavy her bag seemed to be. She would have plenty of time to mull over the day's perplexing events once she was somewhere relatively safe and dry.

She turned the doorknob and gave the large oak door a shove and found herself thrust into a half welcoming, half foreboding environment. The Prancing Pony was merrily lit and smelled of pot pie and draft beer…and also several dozen large men looking rather worse for wear. She felt dozens of searching eyes suddenly upon her and she mustered a smile. Attention quickly faded back to local conversations and drinks, and Aida gave a small sigh of reassurance.

Apparently she _was_ dressed rather strangely for the environment she currently found herself in. All of the men were similarly attired to the gatekeeper, with handmade clothes and heavy leather boots. Most had hair to at least shoulder length and many of them sported hearty beards and dirty faces. Perhaps she had stumbled somehow into a rural Amish community…

"Good evening, miss!" bellowed a deep, friendly voice. Aida found herself staring up at a round-faced, red-cheeked, mustachioed gentleman. His face was lined and crow's feet peppered the skin about his friendly green eyes.

"Oh, you must be Barliaman," Aida replied, thrusting a comparatively tiny hand upward to shake the innkeeper's large and calloused one, "I'm Aida. The gatekeeper directed me to your establishment. You see, I find myself unusually situated in Bree. I seem to have taken a strange turn leaving my job this evening and have…ended up here rather than home. I wonder if you might have a vacant room for the night?"

Barliaman's eyes scanned her pale, wet face and he frowned a little, rubbing his chin. This was his second round of unusual visitors of the night and he was not quite sure what to make of her, with her cropped, boyish hair and outlandish clothing. But her tale tugged at his heartstrings and he felt himself incapable of thrusting a lost young lass out into the elements.

"Well miss," Barliman began, "I haven' got a vacant room to offer you, but there stands one empty bed in the Hobbits' room, assuming you aren' opposed to sharin'."

With that comment Barliman leaned left, exposing a table towards the very back of the inn. Seated there were four childlike figures with mops of brown, curly hair. Two of them looked quite cheerful and were waving about pints of beer in one hand and hunks of bread in the other. The other two looked worried and solemn, their brows furrowed in thought. The less cheerful pair appeared to be having a low, private conversation while the mirthful duo laughed loudly at something Aida couldn't pick up.

While she did feel a little uneasy at sleeping in a room full of four child-sized strangers, she didn't see what other option she could possibly have in her current circumstances. Better to share a room with giggling Hobbits (she supposed that must be some kind of local slang for "little person") than with the other, less hospitable-looking patrons.

"Thank you, sir, I would be glad for the opportunity," Aida ventured, "but perhaps I ought to inquire whether or not they will have me?"

"Ah, that's mighty kind of you," Barliman smiled, accentuating the crow's feet about his eyes, now brandishing a pen atop what appeared to be a kind of ledger with guests names and balances. "I'll bring you righ' over, soon as I've got you down in the book." With that he looked expectantly at her.

"Oh!" Aida cried. "Your payment, right…" she dropped her heavy bag on the wooden floor and began to rummage through it, intent on picking out her wallet amongst the gaggle of books.

Aida rifled through copies of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, Homer's Illiad, the collected works of Edgar Allan Poe, Orwell's 1984, four plays by Aristophanes and a copy of the Zombie Survival Guide (which she was somewhat ashamed to be reading, considering it less-than-dazzling literature but amusing nonetheless) before she found her wallet. She knew there to be at least ten other assorted books of prose and poetry (and one Field Guide to the Night's Sky) underneath the rest of her belongings, which she vowed to organize once she had access to her shared room.

Unzipping the thin yellow wallet, Aida opened her mouth in surprise and furrowed her brow, snapping her mouth shut in embarrassment. She felt a red flush creeping up her neck and along her cheeks. One of her nastier habits was forgetting to carry any money, as she rarely bought anything that couldn't be retrieved from the grocery store and then cooked at home. She usually walked or biked to work and therefore rarely needed cash or a credit card to fill up her car. She cursed herself and vowed to begin carrying cash in case more strange emergencies arose in the future.

"Well, this is embarrassing," she muttered, picking up her bag and umbrella from the floor and peering up at Barliman, feeling quite stupid. "It appears that I have no money with me. I know it's not much, but perhaps I could offer you a few books instead…?"

Barliman blinked, just as surprised as she was. Never before had he met a person who forgot all their coin but instead lugged about a miniature library.

"Afraid I haven' got much use for books, Miss Aida," Barliman chuckled, "but as you'll be sharin' a room with Mr. Underhill an' the rest of the Hobbits, I would hardly feel righ' chargin' you to stay as it is. Perhaps I'll let you entertain with a story later as payment."

Feeling her blush deepen, Aida felt herself overcome with gratitude. The gatekeeper had certainly been right in saying that the innkeeper was a bit of an old softie. Never before had she met a 21st century merchant (Amish or otherwise) who was willing to sacrifice cash for storytelling.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Barliaman," Aida stuttered, shouldering her bag and umbrella again. "I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your generosity."

Smiling his crinkly-eyed smile once again, the innkeeper scrawled her name in the registry and gestured for her to follow him to the back of the room. They snaked their way through the laughing, chattering masses and no less than two people spilled beer on Aida's left boot. She found herself incapable of caring, so weary and grateful was she to have a warm place to stay and to know a friendly face. She could only hope that the individuals she was to be rooming with were half as kind as Barliaman.

After they reached the back of the inn, Barliaman made a quick introduction between the four small Hobbits and the strange blonde girl he had taken a curious liking to.

"Little Masters," Barliaman began, "I hope you don' mind, but Miss Aida here needs a place to stay and as I've only got one bed open, I promised the empty one in your room to her."

Barliaman took her bag and umbrella (making a confused face at the contraption and wrinkling up his nose) to carry upstairs to their lodgings. The innkeeper shuffled away, and Aida could've sworn she heard him mumble something about how heavy her bag was.

Gulping and pushing a stray white-blonde strand of hair out of her eyes, Aida stuck out her hand to the nearest Hobbit. He was more heavy-set than his companions, with a round, pleasant face and eyes. He looked innocent and not at all world-weary. There was something comforting and trustworthy about his demeanor that put her immediately at ease.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Aida," the Hobbit said, giving a genuine smile, "My name's Samwise Gamgee. This here's Mr. Frodo, Merry, and Pippin."

As she shook each of their hands, she immediately discerned that Frodo was the most serious of all his companions. Though his eyes were kind, they were clouded with worry and his smile was not genuine, the corners of his mouth tugged down by some preoccupation Aida could only guess at.

Merry and Pippin were of an entirely different breed. They reminded her of cheerful, curly-headed imps. They bickered good-naturedly and often felt the need to clink their mugs together, afterwards taking a hearty swig of beer. As a matter of fact, they made no less than five impromptu toasts to her health before she had been introduced and had sat down.

"So," the one called Pippin began, taking another swig from his mug, "What happened to your hair, Miss Aida?"

Merry choked, kicking his companion underneath the table. "You can't just ask people things like that, Pip!" Samwise looked miffed as well, but Frodo appeared preoccupied, worrying at a small golden ring in his hands, his eyes flickering from the tabletop to the darkened corner of the inn, which was shrouded in the smoke from the pipe of a lone figure.

Aida laughed at the comment and her hands flew instinctively to her head, mussing her pixie cut with her thin fingers as she trained her gaze on Merry and Pippin. "I suppose I prefer the convenience this length affords. Long hair is time consuming. This way I can wake up and not fuss over my appearance."

Pippin looked satisfied, nodding his approval to both Merry and Aida, "We need more girls like you in the Shire."

"Shire?" Aida questioned, "I thought this town was called Bree?"

"The Shire's home," Samwise broke in, a wistful smile on his face, "It's not too terribly far from here, though I think we must be the only Hobbits here now, with the looks we've been getting." His last comment left him looking self-conscious, eyeing the gruff men of the inn with a hint of nervousness. His eyes, too, began to stray to the darkened corner that Frodo was so focused on. "That fellow has done nothing but stare at you since we arrived."

Merry and Pippin rose from the table, in dire need of another pint. They promised to bring one to Aida as well, and she smiled her thanks at them. She felt sorely in need of a drink herself.

"Why are you and your companions in Bree, Samwise, if I am not intruding?" Aida questioned, focusing her full attention on the stout and friendly Hobbit.

Samwise looked to Frodo, who continued to worry with the trinket in his hands. He looked uneasy, as if Frodo were doing something he shouldn't.

"We were supposed to meet a friend," Frodo broke in, his voice faint. With that, he became silent once more.

Aida and Samwise (who soon became "Just Sam, Miss Aida, it's much too proper soundin' for me") soon became lost in their own conversation as Frodo retreated to his thoughts. They discussed the Shire at some length and Aida eventually worked up the courage to request an explanation of Hobbithood, learning that they were a kind of derivative of the race of Men, much smaller in stature and with quite large feet, who congregated mostly about the Shire and Bree in quaint, underground homes, taking to occupations such as farming and eating (especially in Merry and Pippin's case, Sam chuckled) and being generally unadventurous.

When Sam returned the question, inquiring as to why Aida had come to Bree (and alone, for that matter), she stumbled over her explanation: "I'm not sure why I'm here, to be perfectly honest. I just sort of…showed up. I am trying to get home, but if you are to be believed—and please don't think I'm questioning your honesty—then I'm not quite sure where home is. Until today I had never heard of Bree or the Shire. I'm much more accustomed to skyscrapers than picturesque villages, and to be perfectly frank, Hobbits are entirely foreign to me as well."

"Well, Miss Aida, I'm not sure what skyscrapers are, but if I know somebody who can get you out of a mess, it'll be the friend we're waiting on. Gandalf will know what to do." Sam patted her hand comfortingly and she gave him a sincere smile.

A silence fell between them as each became lost in their own thoughts. Frodo stayed preoccupied with his trinket but hurriedly stopped Barliaman as he passed by to ask about the smoky figure in the corner. Aida caught the gist of their exchange—that he was a ranger called Strider—but was focused on her own troubles. She worried about Willoughby, her cat, and whether or not she had fed him that morning. She wished she had somebody to call to look in on him, but from what she knew of Bree, there was a snowflake's chance in hell of finding a phone.

Aida glanced around for Merry and Pippin and found them at the bar, finally retrieving their beer and a second hunk of bread and cheese. Pippin appeared to be engaged in conversation with a rough looking man. Aida furrowed her brow, picking up the tail end of their conversation.

"Baggins!" Pippin cried, gesturing strongly with his mug in the general direction of their table, "Sure, I know a Baggins! Frodo Baggins! He's my second cousin once removed on his mother's side."

At this, Frodo's eyes widened in shock and fear and he leapt from the table, his oversized feet practically flying across the floor of the inn. He grabbed Pippin roughly who, trying to keep his own balance, promptly knocked Frodo harshly to the ground.

Aida's hand flew to her mouth and she rose from her seat, feeling the instinct to catch him before he hit the ground, though she was halfway across the room and the feat would prove impossible.

And then, something happened that shocked her.

Although she had tumbled down a haunted elevator and landed in (quite literally) the middle of nowhere only to keep company with tiny, hairy-footed strangers, she had not felt such an overwhelming sense of surprise until now.

Frodo had vanished.


End file.
